Dance With Me In the Pouring Rain

Whistling softly, I stepped out of the house, shutting the door quietly behind me. It was mild out, with only a few clouds obscuring the otherwise clear blue sky. For a second, I thought I could see Tory’s face in a cloud. I dismissed it just as quickly, chuckling to myself.

Speak of the devil. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I grinned as I checked the caller ID.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” I said cheekily. The memory of her lips, moulded onto mine, had kept me up for a long time last night. It still felt a little unreal to be back with her, like at any minute she could be snatched away from me again. I was determined not to mess up.

“Shut up,” Tory replied good-naturedly. “How is my lovely boyfriend this fine morning?”

“I’m fine. I would be better if I saw you though,” I said hopefully.

“Can’t,” she replied regretfully. “I’m going town with my mum. Unless you want to tag along, of course.”

“Well, I’d love to spend the day with you and your mum. I mean, she’s not bad looking, for her age,” I teased. “I know what I’dlike to do with her.”

“Shut up! Even joking, that is just wrong. I hope you know that you’ve severely creeped me out. I’m getting disturbing mental images right now,” Tory shuddered.

I grinned to myself. “Tory, you are so easy to wind up.”

“Whatever,” she replied childishly. “So what’re you doing today?”

“Not much. I’m going food shopping right now,” I informed her.

“Ooh, hark at you, going food shopping,” Tory teased. “Ain’t you grown up!”

“Shut up. If I don’t do it then who will?”

“You could always starve to death,” she suggested matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” I replied dryly. “I bet you wouldn’t even cry at my funeral.”

“Of course I would,” she replied, her tone suddenly sombre. “I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

For some reason, that made me smile. “Good to know.”

“Just out of curiosity, what would you like your funeral to be like?” she asked casually.

“That’s a bit of a random question,” I remarked suspiciously. “You aren’t planning on doing me in, are you?”

She chuckled. “Oh, Fletch. You have no idea.”

“You’re disturbed,” I informed her.

“So what do you want?” she persisted. “I mean, if you died today, what would you want your funeral to be like?”

“’Cause that’s not morbid at all,” I replied sarcastically.

“Someone has to know,” she replied defensively.

I rolled my eyes, knowing she couldn’t see. “Fine. I guess I’d like all my friends to be there. And Dad, I guess,” I added hesitantly. “I’d- I’d like to be buried near Joe. You know, so our souls can rest together or whatever.” I gave a harsh laugh, as if joking. It didn't sound like me. “I don’t want people to cry. People cried at Joe’s funeral. It wasn't right. It wasn't what he would’ve wanted. I’d like a simple service. Maybe a few speeches.” I smiled to myself. “You know, where people say what a wonderful person you were and how much you’re going to be missed.” I exhaled slowly. “I think that’s it.”

“Blimey,” Tory whistled softly. “You’re not asking for much, are you?” I reddened with embarrassment, but then she added gently, “I’m joking.” There was an awkward pause, saturated with silence. “You aren’t going to cry, are you?”

My lips twitched. “No, Tory. I’m not going to cry.”

I could just see her grinning. “Good. Because I’m bad enough at dealing with crying teenage boys face to face, let alone over the phone.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks a lot, Tory. You really know how to make a guy feel loved.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied sweetly.

“What about you, then?” I asked. “I shared, you share.”

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “I guess the same, really.”

I snorted. “That’s such a cop-out.” I caught sight of the familiar Tesco’s logo. “I’m going to have to go. I'm at the shops now.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding a tad regretful. “Okay then.”

“I’ll call you later, okay?”

“You’d better,” she threatened. “You’d better not be one of those guys who say he’ll call and never does.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t dare, Tory. I wouldn’t dare.”

I hung up on her and tucked the phone into my pocket, whistling softly as I walked into the supermarket.

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The muscles in my arms straining from the heavy, filled-to-the-brim carrier bags digging into both of my hands, I nudged the door to my house open with the sole of my trainers. I could hear the low buzz of the TV as I struggled down the hall and dumped the bags on the kitchen floor. Resting my elbows on the countertops, I gazed into space, counting down in my head. Five, four, three, two-

“Fletch?” Dad called, his voice muffled slightly. “That you?”

No, I replied silently. It’s the bogeyman.

I heard him grunt and get to his feet. I heard him lumber across the living room floor and haul the door open. I heard his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor of the hall, and I saw the kitchen door swing open.

I hadn’t seen him for a while, I realised. Between him working and me avoiding spending any unnecessary time at home where I might bump into him, it had been at least two weeks since we had even acknowledged each others’ presence. I wondered how he’d survived.

He looked different. That I could see. It wasn't hugely noticeable, like a huge scar across his face, or dyed red hair, but I could see it. His eyes were sunken further into the soft, piggy flesh of his eyes, and were glazed over, unseeing. His mouth was half open, a pink sliver darting in and out every so often. He’d stooped even lower, literally speaking; his back was hunched over so far it was practically vertical. I almost- I almost didn’t recognise him.

“Fletch,” he said eventually. His voice was normal. It expelled the strangeness and made him, well, my dad again. “Where’ve you been?”

His tone wasn't accusatory. Not yet. Just the slightest hint of curiosity. It startled me, to be frank. Was my father actually showing an interest?

“Like you’d care,” I said venomously, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop them.

He flinched, hurt. “I was worried.”

I indicated the plastic bags with a curt nod of my head. “I went shopping. We were all out of food.”

“Oh right,” he replied suspiciously.

“I’m out thirty quid,” I said flatly, looking at a point beyond him. He looked at me, as if saying, so what?“Do I have to spell it out for you?” I sighed. “I haven’t got that money to waste.”

“Neither have I,” he replied defensively.

“Well you’re the adult,” I argued. “You’re the one who’s supposed to pay for this shit!”

Dad snorted disbelievingly. “Like this shit actually cost thirty quid. I wasn't born yesterday, Fletcher.”

Muttering in disbelief, I rummaged in the bags and yanked out the receipt, shoving it in his face. “Believe me now? A bloody loaf of bread costs about a pound fifty.”

“Shit,” he muttered, his eyes struggling to focus on the little piece of paper. “When did stuff get so dear?”

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed, father dearest, but we’re kind of in a recession at the moment,” I replied condescendingly. “The price of everything has gone shit high. Maybe if you dragged your head out of your arse for five minutes you’d realise that life has gone on without you.”

His eyes jerked towards me and narrowed in what was obviously supposed to be a menacing way. “Don’t you dare, you cheeky little shit,” he spat, lumbering clumsily towards me. “I’m your father, and you will treat me with respect.”

I laughed humourlessly. “You gave up your right to call yourself my father a long time ago. So don’t even try and claim it back now.”

“How dare you?” he whispered, fury spilling out of his mouth. “How dare you talk to me like that?”

“Because, Dad,” I enunciated slowly, “I really don’t give a shit anymore. Go drown yourself in booze. Do the world a favour and throw yourself off a cliff.”

I knew I’d gone too far. He’d gone that horrible, sickly off-white people go when all the blood has drained out of their face. Every muscle in his face was tense and his eyes were narrowed with hate. His hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides.

I knew I’d gone too far. But by then, it was too late.

He advanced, his movements clumsy and laboured. He was panting heavily, his soulless eyes locked onto mine. As he drew closer, I realised I towered over him. When did that happen? I easily had ten centimetres on him. So it never occurred to me what he was about to do until he actually did it.

As if in slow-motion, my father’s fist drew back, pausing beside his face. I frowned, still unsure what was going on. But then he let fly and his fist collided with my nose with a sickening crack. The force of it knocked me backwards into the sink. My head collided with the cupboard with a smack and stars exploded in front of my eyes. I slid down the cupboards, blinking to clear my vision. I could just about see Dad standing over me, his face contorted with undisguised fury.

“You are my son,” he spat, “and you will treat me with the respect I deserve.”

He looked like an avenging angel, or perhaps a vengeful demon. I couldn’t quite decide. Before I could blink again, his foot connected with my ribs. He kicked me twice, but then his foot withdrew as quickly as it had come. Blinking, I looked up at him, at the demon my father had become. And I wondered how on earth this had happened.

Slowly, I got to my feet, not taking my eyes off of my dad. He couldn’t quite look me in the eye. The anger, the fury, the rage, it had all ebbed away to be replaced with a horrible, exhausting regret. I could see it in his hollow, empty eyes. I knew my father didn’t mean to hit me. I knew he didn’t mean to hurt me. I knew it was just the alcohol. I knewit.

But somehow, I couldn’t quite believe it.

“Fletch,” he managed eventually. It sounded like he was choking on his words.

I thought, cruelly, savagely, good. Serves him right.

“Don’t,” I said tiredly. “Just don’t.”

And then I strode out, leaving my father standing by the sink, looking like he wanted to collapse into his own misery.

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I collapsed on a bench in the park, brooding into the distance. I didn’t even want to run. I felt like that punch had sapped me of my energy and I just couldn’t do anything. So I just sat there, staring into space, as seconds blurred into minutes and minutes blurred into hours and hours blurred into days.

Just joking. Kind of. But it certainly felt that way.

In the middle of my daydream, someone tapped me suddenly on the shoulder and I jumped, startled.

“Blimey, Tory,” I muttered, shoving my hands in the pockets. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

She didn’t smile. “You were supposed to call me.”

My eyes widened and I cursed. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“Hmm.” She didn’t sound impressed as she sat down next to me. “You’ll have to think of some way to make it up to me.”

A mischievous smile tugged at her lips and she reached across to play with my hair. But she withdrew her hand suddenly, her forehead furrowed in a frown.

“You’re bleeding,” she stated, concern seeping into her voice.

I flinched away from her touch. “I walked into a door.”

She frowned, clearing not believing my feeble excuse. “Fletch. What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” I snapped, irritation weakening my self-control. “God, can’t you just leave it?”

To her credit, she didn’t even flinch. She just narrowed her eyes.

“Fletch, seriously. What is it?” she repeated.

Exhaling slowly, I closed my eyes. “My dad hit me.”

“WHAT?!” Tory exclaimed. “HE DID WHAT?!”

“Calm down,” I muttered, glancing around me warily. “You’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting?” She laughed harshly. “Fletch, that’s child abuse.”

“Shut up,” I retorted. “It was… an accident.”

“An accident my arse,” she snorted. “Your nose looks pretty bent out of shape, too. Was that an accident as well?”

“He didn’t mean to,” I said quietly. “He was just angry and drunk and I was giving him lip.”

I could hardly believe I was making excuses for him, but hey. He was my dad.

“That’s no excuse,” she retorted. “He could’ve seriously hurt you!”

“He’s never done it before and he’s never going to do it again?” I snapped. “He’s not like that, okay?”

For some reason, it was very important that she believed me. I mean, my dad wasn't like Jordan's dad. He’d never hit me before, or anyone else in the family. And he never would. It was the alcohol. It had to be. I comforted myself with this thought as I tried to ignore Tory’s doubtful gaze. My dad was better than that. He was.

We didn’t talk for a few moments. It seemed like an age, but it was probably only a minute or two. After a while, she reached across, hesitating slightly, and touched the raw spot on the back of my head where it smacked against the counter. I winced slightly, and she withdrew her hand, but I shook my head, motioning for her to continue.

“Oh Fletch,” she murmured, biting her lip. “He could’ve hurt you badly.”

“But he didn’t,” I replied gently.

“Are you going to go home?”

I shook my head. “Nah. I’ll crash at Kyle’s for a few days or something.”

“You could always… stay with me,” Tory suggested slowly. “And I could get my dad to check you out, see if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I replied irritably.

She held her hands up. “I’m not saying you’re not. Do you want to stay with me or not?”

Was that a serious question? Of course I did.

“Sure,” I replied, smiling a little. “After all, anything’s better than home.”

With a smile, Tory took my hand and helped me to my feet, and we walked out of the park together.